Friday, July 19, 2013


A bundle of pink flesh
Inside the green rind
Water-filled sweetness, 
Glowing without-
One interruption
To disturb my knife.

A preference realized to remove the seeds;
To usher them into extinction
All for convenient slicing....

I look, and remember-
The dirty fields behind Grandma’s house,
Where the old stuff
Went walking with us.
We wound up our tongue
And spit them-
The furthest.  

Later the seedlings
Would appear:
Doomed to die of thirst
Without a gardener.

Now  doomed to die from within...
For me.
So my knife won’t be interrupted

Welcome home.